


for auld lang syne, my dear

by kidcomrade



Category: Django Unchained (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidcomrade/pseuds/kidcomrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And there’s a hand my trusty friend! / And give us a hand o’ thine! / And we’ll take a right good-will draught, / for auld lang syne."</p>
            </blockquote>





	for auld lang syne, my dear

“Django! Django, are you awake?”

For Schultz’ sake, Django pretends he wasn’t. He’s never had the luxury of being a heavy sleeper, and the good doctor (shaking off his slumber, rummaging through Fritz’s saddlebags, shuffling over to Django) is far noisier than he believes himself to be.

“Yeah.” Django sits up and stretches his neck until he hears a satisfying couple of pops. “Why, we movin’ camp again?”

“Oh,  _no_. No, no,  _no_ , my friend, I’ve far better news for you.”

There’s a twinkle in Schultz’ eyes, and Django is very briefly worried.

“All right?”

”Listen to me. I would like for you to divine tonight’s very  _special_  circumstance for yourself, yes? Tell me, Django—when was Christmas?”

“Well. We killed Warren Vanders on Christmas, I remember that. We spent a couple days dragging his corpse back to town, then there were some nights in town, and we’ve been moving ‘round for another couple days, so—” he counts on his fingers— “‘Bout a week? Maybe a day or two less?”

“Ha!” Schultz beams ear to ear. “Precisely one day less, in fact. Which makes today  _der einunddreißigste_.”

“The what?”

“The thirty- _first_ , Django. But not for long. Which means…” With that, Schultz removes from his winter coat his prize: a bottle of sparkling wine. “I managed to procure this beauty while we were last in town, but the snow seems to have thrown our—” he wrestles with the cork for a moment, and it finally comes out, sending a bit of foam spilling over the bottle’s lip— “— _ah!_ —our timing off a bit.” 

Django stares. Schultz, oblivious to his confusion, presses the bottle into his hands.

“To a very profitable new year!”

Finally, he notices Schultz’s appearance. The man’s huddled under his winter coat, half-dressed: his shirt is on, but his pants are not. Schultz strikes such an odd picture—a skinny white man in long red underwear shoving a bottle of wine at him—that Django can’t help but smile back. 

He takes a swig, then passes the bottle back to Schultz.

“Happy new year, partner.”


End file.
